


Untranslated

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is universal: Porthos doesn’t need to know Spanish to know what direction their words turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untranslated

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "Porthos used to love the sound of Spanish because of Aramis, but after being captured by Spanish, now he associates the language with pain rather than love", based off a comment from 3x03 about a previous time Porthos was captured.
> 
>  **ETA:** And now there is [fanart](http://asktothesevenbests.tumblr.com/post/147427684517/the-words-ring-hollow-full-only-of-hatred) of this story. :D Thank you so much!

Lying on the cold dirt of the floor, it’s dank and dark in some kind of cellar. That’s when he hears the words: he can’t understand but recognizes the language. He can catch a few words, but it’s off in this context. 

(He only knows this language in soft, gentle words whispered into his skin, the curve of his jaw. It’s been years since he’s heard it in kindness, but that’s how he would remember it – it’s how he’s always remembered it. How he wants to always remember it.) 

The words spoken are some sort of exchange between two men in rapid-fire Spanish. Porthos tries to listen, to figure out what they’re saying – but his movements rouse their attentions and they spit at him, their words taking on a jagged, hardened edge. 

This is universal: Porthos doesn’t need to know Spanish to know what direction their words turn. He could know no Spanish at all but still know the way they look at him. 

He clenches his eyes shut, goes down with the first kick with a grunt of frustration. His hands are tied behind his back – fighting back now, when he doesn’t know where he is, how many there are, and how to get out – won’t do any good. He has to wait. 

It’s strange to hear the words like this. Not when he’s only ever the words full of love. With—

No use thinking about someone he’ll never see again. He grunts as he heaves himself up onto his knees, shoulders shaking with the weight and odd angle. He is sore all over, knows that his ribs, at the very least, are bruised – at worst broken. He can’t stop to think about it right now. 

(He can’t count the number of times Aramis pressed his lips to his ear, whispered out words in the language. But every time, it was enough to get Porthos to shiver, pull him in closer.)

The words ring hollow – full only of hatred. (Nothing like the way Aramis sounded, nothing like the way Aramis looked.) 

He clenches his eyes shut tighter, hisses out as he tries to wriggle his hands free from the rope tied too tight around his wrists. He’ll be stuck here. But he won’t die here. He won’t let himself. If he breaks his thumb, maybe, he’ll be able to slip out. The problem is he’ll likely make a sound, shout too loudly—

(Aramis, pressing to the curve of his back, lips smiling against his neck as he whispers out a few hushed phrases. Nothing Porthos can discern, but the sentiment clear in the weight of his voice, breathless and smiling.) 

(God, don’t think about him.) 

Porthos breathes out – slow and steady. Twists his wrists around. Flattens his thumb as close as he can, tries to force his hand through the rope. His left hand will be better. Not his primary hand. It’ll take months to heal, maybe. But he’ll be free. 

The men on the other side of the hall are murmuring to each other in Spanish. 

(Aramis, pressing his lips to the curve of Porthos’ jaw, laughing, his words bubbling out in flustered, pleased Spanish. Whispering words that Porthos could only ever associate with love.) 

He forces his hand through, bites down hard on his lip to crush the impulse to yell out in pain. 

(Aramis, running his hands down his back, laughing, saying his name, saying promises in words Porthos can’t understand, but still can comprehend the warmth of his eyes. Aramis trying to teach him rudimentary phrases, laughing at Porthos’ botched pronunciation.) 

Porthos manages to get his hands free. 

( _You are everything to me,_ Aramis whispers, weeks after their lessons – and Porthos laughs, at the thought of it, at the truth of it. Says the words back in stumbling, accented Spanish – listens to the way laughter blooms out from Aramis’ parted lips.) 

But he can’t make it to the end of the hall before he’s captured again.


End file.
